


old wineskins

by AslansCompass



Category: Star Trek: Picard
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:35:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24799312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AslansCompass/pseuds/AslansCompass
Summary: Some things, like fine wine, get better with age.(Some, like fresh fruit, go rotten.)And Jean-Luc Picard, (retired) Star Fleet admiral, is familiar with both outcomes.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	1. reluctance

Three steps for a good night's sleep.  
1\. Half a glass of twenty-year-old Cru Bordeaux from the private cellar.  
2\. Seventeen minutes brushing Number One.  
3\. Two pieces from the Federation's Bach Octocentennial.

It may not be scientific, but the regularity soothes him, reassures him in some unspecified way. The rest of his schedule may vary, but the days always end the same, tidily locked away and set aside. Admiral Picard had rules and regulations; let Jean-Luc have this quirk, this simple habit. After years in the field, facing any foe or disaster thrown his way, he values quiet days.

But it's not the days that are the problems, after all. It's the nights. He can control his thoughts during the day, fill his mind with spreadsheets and numbers, his hands with green grapes and tender vines. 

Night offers no guarantees. Sleep has no certainties. It might be empty, darker than the farthest galaxies. It might be battle-harsh, chaotic, or Borg-bound. But it might be different, simple memories played slantwise.

The latter are cruelest of all. Emptiness ends; nightmares are negated by dawn. 

Memories are real. Real events, real people, real friendships; now lost to death or distance.

Tonight, he dreams of cards and good company, games with friends long gone.

* * *

".. It's the waking up that I'm beginning to resent."


	2. interview

"Why did I let you talk me into this?" Jean-Luc rubbed his forehead. Interviews never were his strongest point. Captains _did_ ; they didn't have to explain themselves to every passer-by. Even reviews from high command were too often distractions from the real issues. And now-- he took another sip of tea. "I'm going on a walk."

"Oh no, you don't," Laris retorted. "You aren't going to hid away in the farthest corner of the vineyard 'inspecting the grapes' again. You wanted this, you're going through with it!" 

"But why?" he says, sounding more like a petulant toddler than a nonagenarian

"Goodness knows. You didn't exactly give us an explanation. All these years of silence, and suddenly _now_ you want to talk?" She glanced at the box of light and sound equipment the network technicians had left. "You must have a reason. You always had a reason for everything?"

"Such as leaving Starfleet?" He took another mug from the replicator. "They'll ask. You know they will."

"Zhaban told them--"

He snorted again. "As if they'll listen to him. Romulans aren't the most respected species in the Federation, even now." Stood up, straightened his suit jacket and tie. " _Bien, à la guillotine, alors."_

* * *

They're all the same, journalists. Status-seeking, money-grubbing, leeches. Profit-driven as Ferengi and relentless as a Vulcan in _pon farr._ Richter leaned forward, pressing every sore nerve. 

> Romulan lives.
> 
> No. **Lives.**

Pyramids and Dunkrik. Richter nodded, no light of recognition in her eyes. He'd pull on that thread later.

Synthetics? That wasn't the topic either. And Data... oh, Data. One of his oldest and dearest friends, reduced to a causal allusion. A piece of bait, dangled before a lurking fish. "In him? _Never._ " What did Data have to do with the synth attack? He'd died years before. If things had been different.... if Data had been alive... there was no one he'd have trusted more to get to the bottom of things, to solve the mystery. 

"What was it that you lost faith in, Admiral? You've never spoken about your departure from Starfleet."

She'd done it. She'd gone there. After all those reassurances, all those promises....

"Didn't you, in fact, resign your commission in protest? Tell us, Admiral, why did you really quit Starfleet?"

He didn't want to admit it. It wasn't the first time an organization had lost its way. But all these questions had only confirmed his thought so many years ago. "Because it was no longer Starfleet..." 

"I''m sorry?"

"Because it was no longer Starfleet!" They wanted an interview? They wanted to know his thoughts? Well, so be it!

"We withdrew. The galaxy was mourning, burying its dead. And Starfleet slunk from its duties!" It had gone against everything he believed, every oath he'd ever sworn. Society may have grown beyond religion, with its petty deities and superstitions, but morals remain fundamental.

"The decision to call off the rescue and abandon those people we had sworn to save was not just dishonorable, it was downright criminal! And I was not prepared to stand by and be a spectator." One man--even one ship--could do nothing in the face of such overwhelming odds. One ship would do nothing save stir up riots, bribery, and extortion, murderous competition for escape. 

"And you, my dear, you have no idea what Dunkirk is, right? You're a stranger to history. You're a stranger to war. You just wave your hand and -pfft!- it all goes away." The Federation, the most abundant system in all of human history--no, he did not grudge her the naivete. But perhaps it was true, all the old wives' tales, that virtue comes only through hardship. That surplus breads sluggish minds. "Well, it's not so easy for those who died, and it was not so easy for those who were left behind." He stood. "We're done here!"


End file.
